


Dreams of a Mandalorian

by kakfa (orphan_account)



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Canderous POV, F/M, The One Where Revan Remembers But Not Really, by ignoring i mean i forgot, casually ignoring some details mentioned in KOTOR II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kakfa
Summary: Most of the clans were gone. Mandalore was gone. So was Revan, in the end. Yet here he remained.A Canderous POV of KotOR.
Relationships: Alek | Darth Malak/Female Revan, Canderous Ordo/Female Revan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	1. Prologue

_You see, the war, the true war, has never been one waged by droids, or warships, or soldiers. They are but crude matter, obstacles against which we test ourselves. The true war is waged in the hearts of all living things, against our own natures, light or dark. That is what shapes and binds this galaxy, not these creations of man._ You _are the battle ground._

 _-_ _Kreia_

When the first ships collided over Malachor V, they paused for the first time that morning. Mandalorians were no strangers to losses during war, true, but the sky overhead had gone petal white, then blue, gleaming with the collisions and explosions of their armada being violently drawn into the downtrodden remains of the Republic’s. They’d long understood that this had been a trap. Another one of Revan’s traps: devastating to behold, knowing the vast amount of Mandalorian blood and steel that orbited Malachor V.

Devastating to behold but no less magnificent, and the Mandalorians on the ground—including himself—had rightfully paused, just for that one moment, to once again comprehend the nature of the enemy they faced.

“Canderous,” Mandalore said when the moment passed and they were all moving again. “I want the rest of Clan Ordo’s ships to reroute. There is no sense in losing more than we already have: prioritize the preservation of the Basilisks, though I doubt the Jedi armada will make an effort to pursue. Do this now.”

Without question, he barked the orders into his comm.

But they would recover, surely. They had come back from worse odds, in the long, honored history of their people. And they had Mandalore the Ultimate with them, whose strength surpassed the Mandalores that had come before him; this loss was calamitous, yes, but they would endure. The Mandalorians always have.

“The Basilisks, Mandalore? What do you think—“

The sound of ion engines and jet repulsors filled their ears. Mandalore’s gold mask was not staring at him, or the ground they had yet to cover. It was once again pointed at the sky, and the darting figure of a Starfighter, having dodged the current catastrophe ravaging the two orbiting fleets. It flew low above the trees surrounding them.

“Revan!” And as if on cue, the famed Jedi emerged from the starship, black cloak whipping against the harsh winds that blew over the planet.

“ _ **You’ve slowed me down long enough, Mandalore**_ ,” The filtered voice, behind one of their own masks, easily carried through the air, and there was no mistaking the anger or the forcefulness in Revan’s tone.

More Republic forces emerged from the trees. He counted fewer than a normal platoon, and perhaps if Revan were not there, they would’ve easily fallen to the Mandalorians’ blasters. Still, something in his blood—in the blood of all the warriors with him that day—had risen at the sight of the Jedi commander, and many of the Mandalorians had raised their weapons in anticipation.

“You intend to challenge me?” Mandalore’s voice was strong and proud. Hearing it undaunted made his courage swell.

Revan leapt down, onto the forest ground before the Republic soldiers. “ **You and I, Mandalore. We could end this now, together.** ”

Perhaps Mandalore had understood something different from what all else understood: perhaps that was the reason why he alone was Mandalore to begin with, and had kept the title with no rival for decades. Perhaps that was the reason why to all of what Revan said, all Mandalore replied with was a solemn nod.

Their forces dueled, and it was clear the Republic was outmatched in this instance, except for the duel Revan and Mandalore shared. Revan’s lightsaber glowed a violent purple amongst the dull greens and browns of Malachor V’s forests, and Mandalore’s helmet shone bright gold against the light of the skies still glittering with explosions.

“And here I thought the Republic lacked the spine for war!” The great warrior’s booming voice could be heard. “You are wasted upon their ranks, Jedi.”

“Revan would never join you bloodthirsty savages,” A different voice spat.

His stims made even the furious, fast-paced fighting of an encounter between the personal squads of the leaders of the two warring factions slow in his mind. Just as he ducked underneath some cover and methodically reloaded another magazine of gas cartridges into his blaster, Canderous spied Revan’s brilliant lightsaber not far from him.

It was clutched in between black gloved hands, and pulled near the Jedi’s head in a two-handed stance he’d seen on other Jedi countless times. Revan’s pilfered Mandalorian mask had been painted grey and red, but a large crack that exposed the Jedi’s eye had already erupted and split open over the course of dueling Mandalore.

Even as their lightsaber glowed purple, Canderous thought that the color reflected in that single, narrowed eye was an icy blue.

But he couldn’t have been sure: as soon as he blinked, Revan had already lunged forward and torn open a seam in Mandalore’s armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is totally how malachor v went and how the mass shadow generator works. title taken from that red hot chili pepper song, Dreams of a Samurai. this is my first fic on AO3 + the SW community so any guidance is appreciated!


	2. The Mando'ade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daily dose of mando'a. source for all mando'a in this fic will be the good folks from theholo.net:  
> \- di'kut: idiot (in this context)  
> \- mando'ade: mandalorians

War. That was all it was really about, in the end: Exar Kun, the Mandalorian Wars, and now the war they waged for survival in a galaxy that Revan had decided didn’t need them. Honor and glory. Victory and defeat. A once-proud people being forced to work as mercenaries and body guards, hitching their honor not to great battles or taking over worlds, but rather to their employers, the same men they ruthlessly killed in campaigns of old.

Canderous didn’t dwell on this often: what use was there anyway, to reminisce of times past? Mandalore had died that day, on Malachor V. Yet the Mandalorians endured. They always did, no matter what came for them.

It just happened that there were worse ways of enduring.

When Bendak came into the Cantina, both Mandalorians immediately knew of the other’s presence. Canderous swung back to face the bar to wait until after the duelist finished staving off the mob waiting for his autoprints.

“Davik not keeping you busy enough, I see,” The other man said. Canderous snorted; he had plenty to do, compared to getting fat and living off of a couple of years’ worth of winnings from death matches the way Bendak did. “Word on the street is there’s a turf war going on down there.”

He didn’t order him a drink. _Di’kut_ who continued to parade around in their armor despite having renounced their intention to fight deserved less than that. The armor was made for one thing and one thing only: war. “You’re getting complacent in your retirement.”

“Can’t say I don’t enjoy living away from all that garbage,” Bendak shrugged.

And then he paused.

“Actually, I’ve got a match today. Some half-decent off-worlder trash.”

“Good,” Canderous tipped his drink back. “You get your death wish, and someone more worthy will get to carry your arms and your armor.”

He’d bet a thousand credits that Bendak was smiling underneath that same armor.

“What? You not coming to watch?”

The Mandalorians endured. Sometimes too well for their own good, and lesser _M_ _ando’ade_ like Bendak were reduced to seeking glory and honor in the pits of no-name planets like Taris.

Canderous shook his head. “Unlike you, I’ve got work to do.”


	3. Sulla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mando'a:  
> \- osik: trash

Of course there was a turf war going on in the Lower City: gangs and Davik were what passed as law down where the Sith didn’t bother to enter. The bigger Brejik’s ego got the worse the fighting became. Not that Canderous cared all too much, but then again, who didn’t miss a time when strolling through the Lower City didn’t entail having to kill jumped-up Vulkars and sullying his boots in the puddles of alien blood he had to wade through?

The solution came, of all places, from the swoop races.

Specifically: Brejik getting killed in a dust-up that he’d instigated. The holocams had stopped broadcasting the awarding as soon as they realized what was going on, but not soon enough to stop Canderous from watching the winner of the Season Opener take a vibroblade to Brejik’s neck.

Huh.

A plan began to form in his head to finally ditch this backwater planet and Davik cheating him out of his credits.

* * *

The winner ended up being not at all what he’d expected. They were a _she,_ to begin with, and came strolling into the Cantina with all the easy grace of a Tarisian native. A soldier trailed after her – Republic, from the posture to the uptight look on his face and the anxious way he cast glances at the off-duty Sith that frequented the Cantina. A woman followed as well, also casting a wary eye on all that went in the Cantina, especially the dueling ring off to one of the chambers in the bar.

Off-worlders, the lot of them. Otherwise he would’ve known who they were by now. He knew for a fact that they also kept company with the Twi’leki teen and her pet Wookiee; that they likely had something to do with the Republic pods that had crash landed in Taris not two weeks earlier; that they had probably been responsible for the raid on the Vulkar base earlier that week.

All in all, a band of trouble-makers.

But he liked the look of the woman: tall, long hair the color of ash pulled away from the face. Blue eyes. A smile as soon as she spotted him, semi-hidden in a table at the far back of the room.

“You’re that Mandalorian,” She said. Her smile was friendly; her two companions were considerably less welcoming. She had a smooth core-worlder accent and a warm voice that matched her demeanor. “One of Davik’s, right? You shook down those Vulkars in the Lower City. _Osik,_ by the looks of it.”

He raised a brow. Not every day you met someone who knew some _mando’a_ and would openly use it in front of a Mando. “They all were. And now they’re gone, thanks to you. I saw you in the swoop race. You look like someone who could get things done.”

She laughed at that. “Not without help.”

“You didn’t tell me you knew some Mandalorian,” The soldier said as they all sat down. The other woman, Canderous noticed, remained obstinately silent.

“You meet some Mandalorians, you learn some _mando’a_. That’s just how it goes.” She looked back at him, “The name’s Sulla by the way,” and the smile had all the while never left her face. It didn’t go unnoticed that her friends didn’t introduce themselves either. “I heard you were looking for me.”

And he gave her the pitch: steal the launch codes, he steals Davik’s ship. They both get off Taris.

“Yeah, and who are you again? We can’t just trust some random Mandalorian when he tells us to break into a Sith base and steal the launch codes. _After_ we buy a droid meant for his boss too, of course.” 

Sulla glanced at the soldier in amusement. “Talk any louder and I’m sure we’ll get thrown into Sith detention before we can even dream of breaking in.”

“Car—I mean,” The other woman said, not-so-subtly glancing at Canderous with suspicion, “He’s right. How do we know we can trust him?” 

“I ain’t talking to you,” Canderous hedged. And he nudged his head at Sulla. “I’m talking to your friend.” He stared straight into those blue eyes of hers, smirking a bit. Boldly, she stared right back. “I saw you win that swoop race and what you did to Brejik after. Anyone crazy enough to race like that is probably crazy enough to break into the Sith military base.

“Besides, we need each other. Know any other ship that can take us off this dump?”

They considered it for a moment. Notably, they all seemed to quietly deliberate as a group, despite Sulla being their mouthpiece. That they were seriously considering it told him they were hiding something worse than being responsible for the break-in at the Vulkar base and wiping Brejik off the face of Taris.

Dangerous _and_ desperate. He didn’t know if it was bad or good for him.

Just as he began to entertain that doubt, it seemed they reached a decision. Sulla stood first. “Alright then. Sounds like a plan.”

The soldier still seemed skeptical, but evidently something the other woman had said convinced him to agree to this. They shook on it, and he was pleasantly surprised to find Sulla’s grip to be firm.

He couldn’t help the grin that split his face; _finally,_ he’d get off this planet. “You come and find me at Javyar’s when you’ve got those launch codes and we’ll both get off this rock.”

The winner of the Season Opener turned away with a nod and a lofty hand.

 _Then_ he spotted the modified Mandalorian blaster holstered at her side. Oh, they were trouble alright.

But he found himself wanting nothing less now. 


	4. Taris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mando'a:  
> \- su'cuy: a friendly greeting; literally, "still live" (e.g., "so you're still alive")  
> \- ner vod: colloquially, my friend/buddy  
> \- elek: yes  
> \- hukaat'kama: watch my back, watch my six  
> \- jetii: jedi  
> \- chakaar: bastard  
> \- hu'tuun: coward

“ _Su’cuy,_ Canderous! Your friend’s pretty useful in a fight,” was Sulla’s way of greeting when she found him in Javyar’s the day after. The astromech beside her—one of those T3 models—chirped. Naturally, this was a day after a rumored hit on the Sith base. They’d lost a good chunk of their men, too. According to rumor.

“Have fun?” He smirked. The two humans from before weren’t with her this time, he noticed. Just the droid. She sat next to him on the bar, their sides touching briefly when she moved to sit on the stool beside his.

He got a closer look on her like this: the tight lines her arms and legs made as she shifted in her seat, the easy set of her shoulders that told of a laidback confidence; her supple frame that looked like it would take more than a couple of Vulkar thugs—or even a squadron of Sith, judging from the rumors—to knock her down. Just the outline of Bendak’s blaster appeared every so often underneath her jacket when she moved.

“Fun?” She barked a laugh, eyes sparkling underneath the spotty lighting in the cantina. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Five Sith charging you while another ten blast you from the sides? Fun.”

Canderous liked her more and more. Such openness was hard to find in Taris. Hard times made worse by the Sith quarantine made good humor rare, and he was tired of having to deal with the same old muttering and scowls when he did Davik’s dirty work. “Judging from how you’re still alive and _here_ , guess you’ve got them. I figured you’d be back.”

She swung to face him, leaning an elbow against the bar. Her smile remained. “If I could’ve blasted my way out of Taris, I would’ve by now. You would’ve done the same too, I bet.”

“Lucky for us we need each other, then.”

If she detected his light flirting she had no tells.

“Alright, _ner vod,_ uphold your end of the bargain. How’re we stealing the Exchange’s regional boss’s personal vessel?” 

He’d have to ask her where she learned her _mando’a._ She was confident enough that she used it interchangeably with trade. “I’ll take you to Davik. He saw the Season Opener too, I know he’s interested in whoever it was that managed to win the race _and_ take Brejik off his hands. He runs a background check for a few days, and in the meantime you’re supposed to fit yourself in the operations at his estate.”

“We steal the ship in those days, then?”

“ _Elek. Hukaat’kama.”_

“Gotcha,” She replied seamlessly. “I’ll see what the crew thinks.”

“You got a better plan?” He growled.

“No,” And she tilted her head at him with a grin. “But I don’t run the crew.”

“Pretty-boy, he runs it?”

At his epithet for the soldier with the two strategically placed locks of hair in his eyes, she laughed. “Oh, Carth? Somewhat. He’s my CO.” She winked. “I’m sure you already figured out we’re Republic, anyway.” 

Canderous grunted. Her climbing the ranks of the dueling ring so quick made better sense. She must’ve been a scout. She didn’t have the same build all the Republic shock troops had and apparently preferred a pistol over a rifle.

“Come on, T3,” She got up from her seat. “We know where to find you, if we’re doing this?”

He nodded. “You better make it quick.”

* * *

He’d been right, about the scout part. They made quick, but no less easy, work of Davik’s estate. She sliced through computer terminals and repaired droids into fighting off Davik’s guards. Bendak’s blaster remained holstered the entire time—as soon as enemies started firing at them, she and Bastila were off with their shields switched on and their blades swinging in the air.

He’d by lying if he said this was the first time he’d fought alongside the Republic; he’d met many disillusioned ex-soldiers in his work. So he knew their fighting styles, the same kind they drilled into each and every single one of their recruits. Sulla was no different with her vibroblade—the same safe, dependable forms that were rigidly utilitarian, but she moved through them with a fluidity that was all her own. 

Competent—as he thought; as he liked.

But: this was the first he’d fought alongside Jedi. Bastila had kept her handle hidden the entire time, and she’d been wearing some forgettable set of armor—and yet the sharp, clean smell of ozone and burning insulation—

—the sight of that violent, golden glow—

—the unmistakable _sound_ of that twin-ended lightsaber powering on for the first of many times that day—

It had set his nerves on end.

 _Jetii._ Just his luck he’d be escaping Taris with a crew that harbored one of those pseudo-pacifists. As soon as Sulla had confirmed they were Republic, he’d suspected there’d be _some_ Jedi involved, seeing as how they were so desperate to get off Sith-infested Taris.

From the looks of it, with the way Bastila had objected to gassing the spice labs but ended up slicing through them later anyway, pseudo-pacifist perfectly captured it. Sulla was no help either. She’d acquiesced to Bastila’s concerns the moment she heard them. Good soldier, he thought; Jedi always had outranked the Republic grunts. It must’ve been one botched mission that grounded them all on the ass-end of the Outer Rim.

To top it all off, the Sith began an orbital bombardment of Taris just as soon as they reached the hangar. That little _chakaar_ Calo Nord was in there with Davik too, and soon it was a race to the _Ebon Hawk_. “If I’m going down, I’m taking all you with me. This thermal detonator will blow us all—“

He couldn’t believe it. “Crazy little _hu’tuun!”_ The Sith were already blowing this blasted rock from space!

Canderous had _just_ sighted Calo’s hand on his blaster when a sizeable chunk of the hangar roof promptly fell on him. He would’ve laughed for a good minute or two, _there goes the great Calo Nord, felled by some debris—_ if only the Sith weren’t blowing the planet he stood on to bits.

As it was, he settled for running as fast as he could on the way to the _Ebon Hawk._ It was almost as if his implants were working twice as hard, like he could _feel_ the chemicals burning in his veins. When he leaned against the nav computer in the cockpit, it took more seconds than usual to regain his breath.

“We’re not out of danger yet,” Sulla yelled, slipping into the pilot’s chair. Bastila sat opposite, and together they powered the _Hawk_ on, and Sulla maneuvered them out of the rapidly crumbling hangar. “Where to—“

“—Dantooine,”

“That farming world?” He heard himself growl.

The Jedi only tossed him a look over her shoulder: “There’s a Jedi enclave there where we can find refuge.”

Sulla nodded. “Let’s go get our friends.”

And they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quite a bunch of mando'a here, but i like to think the meaning of some can be gleamed contextually. i do try to be judicious of including foreign words though.


	5. War Story

It was two days in hyperspace before they would reach Dantooine. Most of it was spent settling in the ship, picking spaces and bunks. Canderous chose the garage, where the swoop bikes and a workbench were. Nobody bothered him: the Twi’lek and the Wookiee kept well enough away and the Republic sealed themselves off in the cockpit. Strategizing on what to do now that they left Taris an irradiated hunk of rock in space, he guessed. It was none of Canderous’ business but the sounds of their conversation were hard to miss whenever he passed by the comm room.

He was unsurprised when it was Sulla who finally came to speak to him. Both the Jedi princess and the Republic soldier looked like they lacked the spine. 

“You want off this ship once we hit dirtside?” She said, leaning against the doorway that led to the boarding ramp.

“Depends,” He grunted. He’d been disassembling his blaster at the workbench, retooling it with some parts he’d swiped when they raided Davik’s estate.“Can’t know until we get there.”

“Thanks, by the way.” He noted that she tried peering over his shoulder to look at his handiwork. “We would have been dust if it weren’t for you.”

A hand went straight for a beam splitter he’d found. He’d found two, in fact, so he let this transgression slide. “You ought to know you can’t interfere while a Mandalorian refits his weapons.”

“ _Verd ori'shya beskar'gam bal Bes’uliik. '_ Yet a warrior is worth more than his armor and his Basilisk.'”

He reached for a rag on the far end of the table, cleaning the blaster fluid off his fingers. “Where’d you learn all this?”

It was one thing to know the words. But she knew the pronunciation, and reflected the solemnity in the phrases. It intrigued him somewhat: her training and her deference to Bastila and Carth told him she was Republic through and through. There were few ways one could be so knowledgeable: she even beat some of the newer races that were colonized and introduced into the ways of the _Ma_ _ndo’ade._

Curious about her response, Canderous turned to face her. 

“Well, I know enough alien languages that I could qualify as an official translator in the Republic’s diplomatic corps.” She chuckled. It was a deflection.

“Tell me. You really learn this much from a bunch of drunk Mandalorians you met at a bar, or did you learn it while fighting us in the war?”

She put away the splitter before sitting on top of one of the crates stacked in the garage, as if she sensed the seriousness in his tone. Her forehead creased. “Ah…well. The second one, I think. But drunk Mandos never hurt in expanding the vocabulary. They don’t put _those_ in the protocol droids.”

He leered at her. “You _think?”_

“My file says I did serve in the war,” She shook her head. “But my scouting unit was captured and tortured by the Sith right after. I was the only one they found.”

Short and succinct; like they were the lines on her file and she was just recounting them to him. She took his silence as a sign to continue. “It was for some kind of intel that I don’t even remember having. The Jedi did all they could to patch me up, but it only succeeded in erasing what happened and some more.”

He’d heard of such stories, even way back from the time of Exar Kun, to the war they fought with Revan and their Jedi. Some of their own warriors returned from battles with their body well but their mind altered and their spirit splintered. Something had been done to them, it was obvious. Something to do with the force—whatever it was. They had never really been able to tell.

“The Sith,” He muttered. “They did this to you?”

Sulla sighed, brushing off some dust from her pants before standing. “Funny. If my file hadn’t said so, then I couldn’t even answer that. I haven’t even tracked down the Jedi who put my mind back together yet. But it’s some small mercy that Jedi made me forget, don’t you think?” 

Canderous disagreed. All physical pains only happen at the moment they occur, but some mental pain could be scarring. Were such scars worth losing an entire chunk of your life, however? Your battles were what made you who you were as a warrior. Victories, losses, scars, and all.

Scars and wounds were twice as important—remembrances, evidence of the struggle you had been in, of the wars you waged.

No, it was no mercy at all, he decided.

She looked at him askance. But there was no accusation in her tone when she spoke next, merely curiosity: “Satisfied, then?” 

He wasn’t sure how someone could function, let alone bear to live, without their memories. But there she still stood and he questioned it no further, sparing her no pity or any more puzzlement. Knowing what he knew now, he wouldn’t have expected such a person to best Bendak, _di’kut_ that he was.

Yet she did best him. 

He gave a brief nod, and Sulla twitched a smile. “We found some food in the cargo hold, if you’re looking for something other than the stuff from the synthesizer.”

* * *

They met again later, when everyone else had gone to bed except for Bastila off in the cockpit, and Canderous who’d decided it was a good time to use the ‘fresher. Cleaning off the grime and Rodian blood from their raid on Davik’s estate took a good deal of time after all.

His body told him that it would’ve been night on Taris. So he was surprised when he saw her in the main hold, talking to the droid.

“Any other functions I should know about, T3?”

The droid chirped.

“Interesting. How do you like that flamethrower I installed the other day?”

An arm shot out from one of the droid’s many panels, waving this way and that, as if demonstrating said arm to Sulla. The droid’s beep sounded higher than all its previous beeping _._

“I know. Useful, right? I liked it when you lit the governor’s leg on fire.”

The droid chirped again.

“You done talking?” He rumbled.

She turned to gaze upon him leaning against the main console. Her blonde hair was rumpled, hanging in a tangled mass around her shoulders, and she was in a loose pair of pants and a shirt. She’d obviously gotten up from sleep. “You done with the ‘fresher?”

“You already had your turn this morning,” He shot back. “You should get back to sleep.”

Sulla shook her head, and sat on one of the seats near the console, looking up at him with a smile. “You go on ahead. I’m done for now.”

“Problem?”

She shrugged. “Another souvenir from the torture. I get dreams. Some good, some bad. I’m swapping Bastila out soon, anyway.”

He deliberated for a moment. Then he sat down on another of the seats surrounding the console. There’d be plenty of time to catch up on rest in Dantooine, and he liked luxuriating in the comfort of the _Hawk._ It made Davik’s ignoble death that much sweeter. 

“Tell me more about yourself, will you?” She said. An obvious attempt to change the subject, but he didn’t disdain her for it. She was grinning at him. “Looks like we’re stuck together for the next couple of days, at least. This way I can tell Carth to relax.” 

He nodded. A name for a name; history for history. Her story about being tortured by the Sith made for a pathetic war story, considering she didn’t even remember half of it. But he had always honored such reciprocations. The words flowed easily.

“You know my name, but not the entirety of it. My name is Canderous, of the Mandalorian clan Ordo. I’ve spent decades fighting across the galaxy because the honor and glory of battle rule the _M_ _ando’ade—_ it's through combat that we prove our worth, gain renown and make our fortunes _._ We’d been stockpiling on the things we collected from two decades of conquest in the farthest reaches of the galaxy before Mandalore waged war on the Outer Rim.”

She absorbed this with a nod. “When you put it that way, I’m surprised you lost the war.”

“Was it really a surprise?” He challenged. If there had been any surprise at all, it had been Revan. They’d had such overwhelming success at first, and the Mandalorians had been more than a little bit bored; then Revan arrived, and they were suddenly fighting the battles of their lives. “True, we didn’t know if we’d win, toward the end. But there was a joy in not knowing. Win or lose, as long as the fight is worthy, then honor is gained. The smaller the odds, the harder the battles won, the greater the glory at having triumphed.”

He purposely directed this at her: “If there’s nothing at stake—your possessions, your life, your world, then the battle’s meaningless. We Mandalorians take everything we are and throw it into battle. It's the true test of yourself—the battle against death…against oblivion.”

“It sounds like looking for death in every turn,” She said thoughtfully. “I would’ve asked if it ever scared you, but I know the answer: it doesn’t matter, at least not to you.”

Canderous smirked. She understood. “All life dies eventually. But there’s honor to be had in waging your own fight against it, every time it raises its head. You asked me if it was a mercy, that you don’t remember. But _that_ is death to a Mandalorian. We carry everything with us. What the Jedi did was a crime.” 

“All good advice, _ner vod_ _._ Not that I expected less—trust a Mando see it so differently.” Here, her voice turned wry. “If I had any choice in the matter, I think I would’ve chosen to remember as well.”

“Then the sins of the Jedi are greater than thought.”

It was well and good, he figured, that after defeating the Mandalorians, Revan turned their back on the Jedi. Sulla seemed to echo this: “If it makes you feel any better, Malak’s making them pay now.”

Canderous shook his head. She had a sense of humor, but he wondered briefly if her loyalty to the Republic had any sort of flexibility or nuance to it. It was telling that she readily spoke to him, without caution or suspicion.

“Times have changed,” He didn’t know what Revan had intended, he doubted anyone ever knew. Yet even if he knew, surely those intentions were gone the moment Malak had taken over. Bombarding a planet for one little _jetii_ , only for them to escape? This war was beyond him. “The Republic is in decline and this new Sith Empire rises to take its place. The clans are scattered.”

“But people still fear the Mandalorians. Fear _you._ ”

His lip curled with a sardonic grin. “They will always think we warred out of spite and bloodlust. They don’t understand. They never will.”

“Davik used that fear well, though. Not so glorious, I imagine.”

He grunted: of his previous occupation, truer words could not have been spoken, that much he acknowledged. Davik had been just another wretch looking to capitalize on strength he could buy but he himself didn’t own. Honor on the other hand could never be bought, despite what every deep-pocketed _hu’tuun_ thought. “When I think of the fights I’ve fought, the thousands I’ve killed, the worlds I’ve burned? No, not the most glorious of tasks. I weep for my past.” 

He didn’t dwell on this often for a reason. Most of the clans were gone. Mandalore was gone. So was Revan, in the end.

Yet here he remained. 

He glanced at her.

She still listened. Right then she looked like something that had crawled out of a pazaak den after one too many losing hands. But memories or no, she was worthy of his respect. Now they had fought alongside each other; now they understood more about each other; if she were Mandalorian, he would have recognized her as a brother in arms at the very least. This he knew of his culture, which he had always sought to honor. 

“We will never again speak of this. We’ve got work to do, once we reach Dantooine, don’t we?”

A corner of her lips lifted, this time recognizing his own deflection. “The Sith are after us now. So yes, I should think so. Will you stay?”

What was left for him to do, as _Mando’ade?_ But if what was to come would be anything like their escape from Taris, then—“I’m here if you want something done right.”

It was only an inkling, but he sensed that she had a way of drawing trouble to her, like a planet with a mass shadow that proved inescapable. 

Much, much later, after Rakata Prime and the Star Forge, he would say of his earlier indecision and weakness: _ha!_ To think he had ever stayed from saying yes.


	6. Jetii

If anything, Dantooine was even worse than Taris—nothing but rolling hills and fields of wheat for miles on end. There were farms, farmers, and of course the customary provincial disputes that filled these farmers’ heads since they had nothing else to do with their worthless lives.

Yet the moment they grounded in the enclave’s compound, there’d been a spring to Sulla’s step. When she noticed his staring at the way she’d just stood, breathing the air in with her eyes closed, she quirked a brow. “What? I grew up on a world like this.”

“You mean to tell me that some backwater _hick_ like yourself is the same person who knows more alien languages than she’s got fingers?”

“Hey, nothing wrong now with having some farmer blood. Not all of us can be born bloodthirsty Mandalorians,” Carth interjected.

The Twi’lek made a little _oooooh_ noise. “You oughtta stop making him mad like that, Carth, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna want to shoot you in your sleep one of these days.”

“If I wanted to kill someone it’d be out in the open, with the sun blazing,” Canderous said to nobody in particular, “We Mandalorians prefer it when their victims recognize their complete inferiority as they’re being killed.”

“And did the Mandalorians recognize their own inferiority when they were losing to Rev—?”

“If you’re quite finished,” Bastila cut in.

Sulla stood to the side with an amused expression on her face. She cocked a brow at him. She looked disappointed, almost, but all he did was snort: he had little patience for one soldier’s pettiness. 

“Sulla and I are going to an audience with the Council.” Bastila continued. “There are rooms in the enclave meant for travelers like us, if you all wish to sleep somewhere other than the _Hawk_ while we sort this through.”

Carth opened his mouth to argue, but Canderous had already turned away and tuned it out.

Bastila’s words, though, belied her belief that this was going to take days. He growled. Fat chance he’d ever set foot in those rooms; he was no ordinary traveler. He doubted his presence would be welcome—the Jedi would tolerate it, of course, but he didn’t exactly feel like later being accused of making the other peace-loving residents of the compound uncomfortable.

“I think if you came with us, T3, they’d have your memory wiped,” Sulla was saying to the droid. It gave a series of panicked beeps _._ “Exactly. Besides, you’re learning how to use those upgrades already—wouldn’t want any wipes messing with that.”

Canderous walked up to her. “You just happen to have an audience with the Council already?”

She shrugged. “Tell you later. Complicated stuff.”

* * *

Naturally, the nearest cantina turned out to be miles away, and there were no opportunities to just acquire a speeder, and the swoop bikes in the _Hawk_ had never been built to accommodate someone of his size. It figured: the Jedi probably didn’t drink, and this enclave’s location was supposed to be a secret. The feeling of being stranded in the middle of nowhere was absolutely intentional. 

Mission and Zaalbar had taken T3 with them to go exploring. He could care less what they did: he’d opted to guard the ship instead, checking to see if their narrow escape from Taris’s bombardment had made any lasting damage. In his boredom he’d pulled a floor panel loose and hopped into the Hawk’s underbelly, knowing they’d sustained a couple of hits from some Sith Starfighters right before they slipped away from Taris’ cluster of the Outer Rim.

He popped his head from the circuitry underneath the hyperdrive when he heard somebody’s footsteps. He looked up to see none other than Sulla alone.

She cocked her head at him, a limp smile in place. Whatever it was the Council had said, it had been no good for her. “Anything we ought to replace?”

“Nothing we can get here on this planet full of kath hounds and farmers,” He rumbled. He hoisted himself up on the floor with ease, and she helped him replace the panel. When they were done, she wordlessly strode away. He walked over to the garage and sat himself down on a crate, knowing she’d have to pass by before leaving the _Hawk_ again.

True to his prediction, she emerged from the hallway minutes later with a stuffed rucksack. When she spotted him sitting expectantly, she sighed, and leaned against the workbench in front of him. “You noticed Bastila left the ship as soon as we got here, right?”

He nodded. The Jedi had uncharacteristically been in a hurry. He would know; nobody lowered the boarding ramp without making a ton of noise that echoed to the bunks in the starboard section.

“I’ve been having stranger dreams than usual. Ever since we got into this mess and crash-landed on Taris, in fact. The Council just told me Bastila’s been having the same dreams.”

“Let me guess: she’s the Jedi who messed with your head.”

Sulla cracked a wry smile at that. For a moment, she stared at the floor. “Apparently not. I always thought I’d recognize them, whoever it was. But the Council doesn’t know. They can’t undo what happened either.” She tapped her head with a finger. “Might scramble whatever’s left in here and leave me with nothing at all.”

“Then mourn for the life lost with these memories, and be done with it. _This_ life waits.”

She crossed her arms, and some warmth returned to her face when she smiled wider. “You see, this is exactly what I expected you to say.”

Despite her words, he could tell she was still coming to terms with it, if her following sigh was any indication. So it would be, but now she would always know how he felt about the matter. Healing from wounds had always depended, in a way, on the warrior’s own desire to heal. It was another test of the spirit among the many life presented. He would be disappointed if she succumbed to the wounds in her mind.

She unstrapped Bendak’s blaster from her belt, leaving it still holstered on the workbench. He frowned. He’d long noticed that she wasn’t carrying her vibroblade either.

He stood. “Going somewhere?”

Sulla bit her lip. But her eyes were suddenly sparkling, and it only increased his suspicion.

“The Council offered to train me.”

“You want to become one of the sorcerers that _mangled your mind?”_

“I wouldn’t call it mangled. Seems to work fine, especially with computers and droids. And didn’t you just tell me to get over it?”

He acknowledged that—but, really, the Jedi could stoop no lower. “They must be desperate,” He sneered. “They’re just throwing anybody at the Sith now, aren’t they?”

“They _are_ desperate,” She replied without missing a beat, unfazed by his resistance. “Fighting two wars, one right after the other, tends to do that.”

This was a losing battle. He narrowed his eyes. “You want this.”

The curve in her lips and the glint in her eyes didn’t lie. “Wouldn’t you? After all the Jedi have done in the last war, you wouldn’t say the same if you were in my shoes?”

Unbidden, Revan appeared in his mind. Revan with their lightsaber in their hands, dueling Mandalore on Malachor V. Tenacity embodied.

But when he looked at her, he felt his mouth thin. They couldn’t turn anyone into Revan even if they tried. Revan was dead. And now the Jedi faced extinction. Would they endure, just as the Mandalorians had? Ironic that they faced the same fate, and by practically the same hand. All their codes and sanctimoniousness couldn’t even save them from their own kind. 

“It’s no business of mine,” He decided. “Take care that these _jetii_ don’t get you killed.”

“So little trust in me.” She laughed. That was untrue—as brothers in arms he held faith in her abilities. It was Jedi he never trusted.

She didn’t even say goodbye this time. Just raised her hand, that stupid grin on her face, hair whipping past her cheeks as the _Hawk_ ’s boarding ramp lowered and air rushed in the ship.

He didn’t see her for a month after that.


	7. Wolf Moon

The Sith didn’t come for them while they were grounded in Dantooine. Secret enclave, Bastila had said, and it held true enough. He spent weeks in the _Hawk,_ working on refitting its turret. The _Hawk_ was a freighter, which meant she was built for slipping in and out of sectors in the galaxy—perfect for smuggling, less so for facing enemy Starfighters. He thought it could use some more firepower, now that facing off against Sith again looked to be a real possibility. Weapons upgrades were something that they at least sold in the enclave’s shops.

The Wookiee occasionally came by to help, which Canderous welcomed. Zaalbar was silent company, and easily learned his way around the ship’s hardware and circuitry. Always, the Twi’leki teen tagged along, and since no use for her could be found in the gun turret, she’d taken to testing the _Hawk’s_ security protocols with T3.

Carth also came by, each time with suspicion rolling off of him in waves. The turret was already crowded with Canderous and Zaalbar, so each time he did little more than glare.

Naturally, Canderous simply watched him waste his energy on such worrying. There was work to do on the _Hawk._

Work while he waited for Sulla, much as he was loathe to admit. But she hadn’t wasted his time yet: if anything, his inactivity was the _jetii’s_ fault.

“That scout of yours,” He said conversationally, while Carth checked the flight controls in the cockpit for what must’ve been the thousandth time since their landing in Dantooine. Canderous would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy how the soldier jolted in the pilot’s seat. “A fine piece of work, isn’t she? The way your Republic didn’t even bother to screw her head back on right.”

“Her name is Sulla,” Carth said, voice gruff. “And it was the Jedi’s fault. Not the Republic’s.”

“Most people don’t really bother with the distinction.”

“Well, I do.” He swung to face the controls again. 

Canderous wasn’t finish­ed. Far from it: he’d obviously hit some kind of sore spot. “What? Jedi ruin your family or something? Take your kids, give them lightsabers, send them off to war?”

“ _It’s none of your damn business_ ,” Carth snapped as he stood, stalking out of his chair. “I don’t know why Sulla keeps you around—or why _you’re_ sticking around to begin with, shouldn’t you have left this plane­t already?” ­

“I gave her my word that I would be here and as a Mandalorian I stick _to it_. But you wouldn’t know this, of course. You’ve been too wrapped in your Republic schemes to notice anything else.”

How telling it was— _why Sulla keeps you around—_ and now that the scout had gone off and joined the Jedi, she would soon outrank the soldier as well. Everybody seemed to defer to her judgment: much as Bastila liked to pretend otherwise, it was Sulla that Mission and Zaalbar followed around like banthas with their shepherd, and it was Sulla that Carth looked to for aid during judgment.

It was Sulla they were _all_ waiting for, while they distracted themselves with taking care of the _Hawk._

A beep caught both their attentions. Carth rushed to the controls and muttered, “Someone’s lowered the ramp.” 

They both heard the stray strands of a conversation when they reluctantly made their way to the main hold. To their surprise, it was Sulla herself, with the Twi’lek and the Wookiee following.

“You programmed T3 _to play pazaak with you?”_

“I wanted to see if he could detect my cheating—plus, we had nothing else to do! If you’d let me come with you then maybe—”

“No, Mission, it’s too dangerous— “

“Sulla!” Carth exclaimed, moving forward immediately. Canderous crossed his arms. He looked the scout up and down.

She was dressed in those Jedi rags—nothing at all like the form-fitting armor she’d worn on Taris. _That_ had lightly padded her limbs and torso in a reinforced mesh weave. These robes were little more than folds of cloth on her body. Ah, the famed Jedi asceticism—it would’ve made them easy targets in the war, had it not been for their speed and their annoying instinct for danger.

She’d even shorn her hair: it was now as long as her chin and mostly tucked behind her ears. It made the smile on her face when she recognized them all the more pronounced. “I knew it was you two arguing again. Do you ever stop?”

“I would if he’d stop trying to set me off,” Carth countered, clasping Sulla’s hand.

She gave a laugh. It rung hearty and clear in the middle of the ship, and Canderous’s lips twitched. “Nice to see the Jedi haven’t sucked all the life out of you.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Sulla’s smile turned crooked. “ _’There is no passion.’_ I’m all Jedi now. Still an apprentice, but— “

She explained why she was there; she’d been given some tasks by the Council and she’d ran into Mission and Zaalbar while she returned to the ship for the first time in a month.

“Please, Sulla, I can help!” The girl whined. Zaalbar gave a low growl at that, which only she and Sulla seemed to understand. “Geez, Z lay off—I know what I’m signing up for!”

Sulla shook her head. “Sorry, but I can’t. It’s all open field here and you’re better with a blaster from afar. Even if we do get you decent cover so you can shoot, I don’t want to risk you getting ambushed by some kath hounds.”

“Then bring Big Z with you! We’ll watch each other’s backs, you’ll see—”

Canderous barked a laugh. “That’s an insult to his abilities. His skill deserves more use than in being your babysitter.”

Zaalbar growled his agreement. [I’m sorry Mission, but I would rather fight in close combat in this instance. You need to practice more with your vibroblade.]

The teen scowled at that. Carth gave an apologetic smile. “Look kid, you were good back in the sewers but these are hills, with a lot of wild animals running around. There’ll be plenty more fights in the future, you can count on that.”

“I am _not_ a kid!”

“If you want to prove yourself,” Canderous fought back the wave of annoyance he felt. He appreciated that while he and Zaalbar had worked on the ship, she had also taken to doing something useful by honing her skills. But Mandalorian children weren’t half so foolish or whiny. “Prove yourself on the merit of your skill. You heard your friend. _Practice_. There’ll be another time, but not this one.”

That seemed to shut her up on the matter.

“ _Fine._ But next time, swear you’ll bring me, okay? You always take T3 and you took Bastila with you the last couple of times already.”

Sulla grinned. “Alright, alright. _If_ the next time calls for it. You don’t see me bringing Bastila or T3 now, do you?” She turned to the men in the room. “I only want two with me this time, though. Any of you want—“

All three of them spoiled for a fight. Any fight, really. But Canderous had to smirk when Carth realized Sulla picked them both for the mission.

* * *

The biggest task on her list had been helping against raiders, and the Jedi Council had deemed this in particular to be part of her training.

These were _Mandalorian_ raiders—it didn’t surprise him at all to know that they’d stooped to pillaging farms on a backwater world like Dantooine. If Carth expected him to shy away from this truth, he did not. The way of the _Mando’ade_ eventually stripped all those who were too weak to follow it in its true nature.

“When the war turned against us, their kind was the first to run away from battle. They’re cowards who turned to raiding farm worlds just like this and terrorizing those who pose no challenge to them,” He said their first night under the stars, in a clearing with a small fire burning in the middle. “There’s no honor in what they do, and I’d be glad to rid the galaxy of them.”

All three of them sat with their backs against the towering boulders that hemmed their campsite. Carth blinked at his words, but it was Sulla who looked at him with an intensity that surprised him. “There are few Mandalorians already. Are you sure about this?”

“You’re telling me you’d leave them alive?”

She smiled at that, but shifted her gaze into the fire. “I’m certain this is another test that depends on how I handle it. All life is sacred to a Jedi. Even those of raiders.”

“These are _Mandalorians._ You tell that to the hundreds they’ve already killed,” Carth muttered.

Canderous almost hated agreeing with Carth. But that morning had, if nothing else, proven they shared a mutual disdain for the Jedi. 

“You’re right,” Sulla said softly. “But it changes nothing. This is the Jedi way. If I can spare them, I will.”

“If this _osik_ were the last of the _Mando’ade_ then we would be truly gone. I will kill them—honor demands it.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It was still blue, but it was sharp and pensive, whose edges glinted with the orange light of their campfire. “I asked you to come with me on this mission, so let me ask one more thing. If my methods don’t work, then we switch to yours. Can we agree on that?"

A kath hound howled in the distance.

It was a long, lonely sound. They waited for other hounds to echo it—but none came.

“They’ll die before they surrender,” Carth said into the silence. “You _know_ this.”

They all knew it. “I’ll strip them of their clan names, arms, and armor if my blaster doesn’t strip them of their lives first.” 

Bloody as it was, it was still something of an agreement. This was still her mission, and she’d invited him to it. Sulla took it with a nod.

But Canderous was more curious on why the same person who’d willingly stood off with Bendak in a death match suddenly decided these raiders’ lives were worth anything. It should have been simple: if this were any other world, any other employer, it would have been simple. Kill the raiders, avenge the wronged on this planet. The Jedi always seemed to have a way of complicating it all.

Codes and sanctimoniousness, he remembered. It went hand in hand with asceticism and some foolish belief that everyone was worth saving.

She was the last person he expected to buy into it. She who understood more about _Mando’ade_ honor and glory than most—but of course, if Sulla had any answers, she didn’t say, and Canderous didn’t ask for them.

Their night went on with the lone hound’s howling.

* * *

The next day she spent as much time scanning the horizon for enemies as gazing at the clouds sailing the sky, the wheat swaying with the wind, the kath hounds roaming in packs. They ran into little trouble other than the hounds whose numbers needed dwindling anyway. 

The sun was still bright and clear when they finally found them. The wind was cool. It was a beautiful day to fight: Canderous had relished the prospect the entire time, and had enjoyed tracking them down. _This_ was what he’d signed up for when he agreed to stay.

There’d been no cover for them as they approached the raider camp on the far end of a wide open field—so he and Carth stood side by side, clutching their blasters. The raiders had probably seen them coming, and at least they’d chosen well for their final stand.

Jedi lectures or not, Sulla was still no suicidal fool at least. Her shield shimmered when she approached the men. Ten, Canderous counted, including those hiding high on the rocky outcrops behind the raider camp. She addressed the leader, who’d been all too recognizable even from afar.

“A rally master,” Carth said from beside him, giving the telltale crimson Beskar a once-over. 

Canderous shrugged. “A better fight.” All the more to strip these raiders of. 

“You know, for once, I agree with you,” The soldier sighed as he flicked his own shield on. “It’d be good to wipe these guys off the planet.”

“Ah, so this is the meddler,” The leader—Sherruk, Sulla had told them—spoke, the wind carrying the sound. He had the insolent voice of a _di’kut_ who’d had it too easy for too long. “You’re causing us too much trouble for a mere Jedi, even with your wizened Mandalorian bodyguard.”

Canderous grit his teeth. “He sounds like a worm that ought to be crushed.”

Carth chuckled. “Kids these days. No respect.”

In front of them, Sulla spoke: “Yes, well, _I’ve_ gone through too much trouble coming here to not kill you. _Please—_ if you lay down your weapons, the Jedi will understand. This doesn’t have to end in blood.”

Sherruk roared with laughter. “You Jedi are all the same! I will add your head to those of the other Jedi I have killed and take yet another lightsaber for my own!” He spread his feet into a stance, and Canderous could’ve _sworn_ he heard Sulla sigh into the wind as she widened her own stance. “Now you will know why the Mandalorians are feared!”

“Now this is what I’ve been waiting for!” And Canderous gave a roar of his own as the field erupted with blaster fire.

He ducked and rolled to the side, the grass on the spot where he’d stood now singed and smoking. There was no time to take out his blaster yet: while he dashed out of the line of sight of the shooters on the ground, he instead palmed a grenade, set it, waited a few moments then lobbed it at the snipers up high.

The timing was perfect and it burst right in front of their faces—there were less to worry about now, so he finally planted a foot and took aim at whoever Carth and Sulla hadn’t picked off yet.

Six of them. Three of which were unarmored Duros, and as such fell easily to his and Carth’s blasters; that left the Mandalorians in their Beskar, who were skilled with weapons.

The trouble was Canderous was _better._ He unstrapped his blaster. “Cover me, Onasi!”

“Don’t go stealing all the glory for yourself, Ordo!” The soldier yelled, but did as he was told. Canderous grinned as he charged with his vibroblades, probably making a fearsome sight as he violently came down on one of the blue-clad whelps.

 _[You are unworthy to be called Mandalorian,]_ He hissed at him as their blades locked against each other. Canderous held strong in his grip and easily swept their weapons to the side _._ [I’ll enjoy killing you and taking everything you own.]

Canderous knew the Beskar as well as his blaster, as well as the jungles of Dxun and his own clan name; when he had the opening, he drove one of his swords upwards into the seam that joined the arm plates to the armpit. His blow struck true: the Mandalorian shuddered back, blood now coating the hole he’d made in his armor, injured arm holding his sword going limp.

Oh how right he’d been, these worms really were having it too easy—so Canderous ducked and swept him off his feet. His opponent fell with a yelp. He kicked him onto his side for good measure and pressed one booted foot down on his injured arm, forcing his entire weight on him. The Mandalorian _screamed._

Canderous paid no mind of course, because he was too busy prising open another seam in the Beskar with his swords, this time the one between the flexible neck plates and breastplate, the one only noticeable when a Mandalorian stretched their head too much, and this Mandalorian was flailing—

His blade made a satisfyingly wet crunch when he slid it in the tiniest sliver of exposed flesh in the Mandalorian’s neck.

Then he whirled around to catch the other blue-clad whelp off guard, but Carth beat him to it with two particularly powerful blaster bolts to the viewplate, frying the head inside it.

When he readied his blades again, it was just in time for them to watch Sulla swipe at Sherruk’s fingers. The Mandalorian dropped one of the lightsabers he was holding, and his head snapped over to the side in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Sulla was quick to take advantage: she smoothly brought her own saber round her head, gripping it with both hands. Bending her knees and pulling her weight back like a tight coil, she then sprung forward with a deadly lunge—

Canderous’s eyes widened.

—and she went for that same seam in the neck, except she was armed with a lightsaber, and Sherruk’s head had already been tilted to the side. The beam of light _crackled_ as it tore straight through the seam’s thinner Beskar unlike any other weapon in the galaxy. 

The Mandalorian went still. Then he groaned when Sulla nudged her saber deeper into his neck, and Sherruk dropped to his knees, dead when he pitched forward.

Canderous caught Carth’s eye across the field, finding the soldier’s brows nearly jumping off his head. 

Sulla quickly powered off her lightsaber—a cool blue that disappeared in its handle—before doubling over to catch her breath.

Carth was holstering his blasters as he walked over to them. “You fight like a natural with that thing,” Carth whistled lowly. “You sure you weren’t a Jedi in those lost memories of yours?”

“Ha-ha,” She said with a shudder, her shoulders heaving. “If I was, I wouldn’t be a _fracking—_ “ She took one last deep breath. “— _padawan_ right now.”

Seemingly finished, she straightened again. Her face was wet with sweat and red from exertion. But she was smiling, the expression turning a bit rueful when she spotted Canderous. “That went as well as I thought it would.”

“Told you,” He said, but his triumph over another idiotic instance of Jedi pseudo-pacifism was fleeting. Instead, all he felt was puzzlement. She was an even better fighter than he thought—and the lightsaber, a weapon that at its base was leagues better than any vibroblade could ever be, made her nothing but deadlier. She’d even shifted to those same Jedi forms without seemingly any difficulty. “They teach you that in Jedi school?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Some,” Then she shook her head, gazing at the fallen rally master at her feet. “I was blocking him the entire time, I was lucky he hadn’t really learned how to use the lightsabers yet. The grip was all wrong.” 

It explained Sherruk’s shock at his easy disarmament. If Canderous had been Sherruk’s clan leader he’d have laughed in his face before stripping him of his armor and demoting him.

Truth be told, the weaknesses in the Mandalorian armor were no secret. They were simply very hard to get to, since most of the fights during the wars were fought with blasters. The viewplate being the weakest point in the helmet was a fact that Republic snipers—and evidently Carth—had regularly tried to take advantage of, but the weaknesses in the joins in the armor were another matter.

Few ever got close enough to exploit those particular weaknesses, and only Jedi with their lightsabers were usually successful in doing so. Taking _Mando’ade_ down in that way still required an immense amount of skill, if not luck.

“I noticed Bendak had these burns and scratches around the armor of his neck,” Sulla said thoughtfully, before crouching to pick up the lightsabers Sherruk had collected. “It made sense. He was blasting at me the entire time, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. People kept trying to kill him there.”

And of course she’d be the one to finally succeed. There it was: the secret to her triumph in the Tarisian dueling ring, the end to Bendak’s circle of corpses. All this with only a vibroblade, no lightsaber just yet.

“I remember that,” Carth’s face scrunched in memory. “All that running and jumping was… painful to watch.”

“Hey, you try standing off against a crackshot like Bendak! And you weren’t making enough credits from pazaak to support the both of us, eh Carth?”

“You’re wasted in the Jedi,” Canderous said without thought.

Sulla stopped at his words. Blinked.

Then she laughed. “What, you think I’d be better off as a merc like you?”

That—that was true.

He’d had an image, just for a moment, where she was armored head-to-toe in Beskar, her skill fitting right in with their ranks, fighting and winning battles in their name. He and all their other brothers in arms would have been proud to share in her triumphs.

Then he remembered they were all dead.

“Beats bumming with the Republic. You’d be paid better,” Canderous banished the ghosts in his head. “For someone who wanted to spare their lives last night, you took them out pretty easily.”

“She was huffing and puffing like a Bantha, Ordo,” Carth remarked. He picked up one of the high-powered Mandalorian pistols. Then the soldier quietly handed it to him without another glance, and for the second time that day the Mandalorian found himself stopped short.

“They left me no choice.” Sulla sighed.

That was true as well.

When he later strapped three sets of Beskar and three blasters to his pack, nobody said a word. 

* * *

Night fell: the remains of their campsite from the day before was untouched. Once again they set up camp, and having satisfied their itch for a fight, they retreated into their post-battle rituals. For Canderous this included disassembling his repeating blaster and cleaning it inside and out.

He’d already set aside his pack with the things he’d liberated from the raiders—what he’d do with them, he didn’t know for sure. But it didn’t seem right to leave them out in the field, where some unworthy farmer could have stumbled upon them.

When they trekked it had been hard to not think of another time when he’d hauled his own arms and armor on his back as he marched through the fields of some distant planet with a hundred others. They would’ve been singing songs, war songs, as they marched to glory.

It was hard not to think of it even now. _Dha’werda Verda,_ his mind remembered too well. 

He scowled. 

“Catch, Onasi,” He tossed a medpac he retrieved from his belt. The soldier caught it with a nod and a thanks, and Canderous refocused on his blaster that was regrettably already clean. “I haven’t forgotten that you stole my kill today.”

“That’s an odd way of thanking me for saving your life,” Carth casually replied, “Besides, wouldn’t want all the glory going to the Mandalorian now would we?”

Their would-be argument was punctuated by Sulla’s quiet laughter. The two men watched her across the fire, stripped of her outer robe and only in a tank top and pants. Whatever it was the Jedi fed their recruits, it obviously wasn’t enough—she was all muscle and little else now, her bare arms and shoulders flexing and unflexing in the firelight as she practiced her forms with her unlit saber.

“You two,” She said, smiling, though she never looked away from whatever imaginary enemy she focused on as she slid from one stance to the next. Canderous slowly reassembled his blaster as he watched her with half an eye. He was still done too soon. “A rancor could be sleeping in the next room and it still wouldn’t stop you two from trying to get under each other’s skins.” 

Carth shrugged. “Doesn’t sound so bad. The rancor would eat him and I’d get to slip away. A lot of meat on those bones, you know. Bigger prey.”

“It’d smell the cowardice on you and come for you first, Onasi,” Canderous set aside the blaster and lied back on his boulder. “Then I’d blow you both up.”

Carth snorted at the same time Sulla stopped, her laughter now uncontrollable.

There was no howling this time. Except, perhaps, for the sound of Sulla’s mirth that echoed through their small camp all the same. He closed his eyes. He could practically hear her shake her head as she said: “See what I mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the colors of the mandalorian armor in KOTOR actually designate rank: blue for foot soldiers, red for rally masters, yellow for field commanders. bendak wore yellow armor.


End file.
